


The double bed

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are (again) forced to share a room, and a bed. Conversations are had, realities are faced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The double bed

John looked at the double bed in despair. In spite of specifically booking a twin bed room, the hotel had allocated a double...again.

He hated these situations, hated them with a passion reserved for clingy dates, the smell of unwashed socks and toes in the fridge next to the milk. Dropping the bags in the doorway, John scowled at the bed.

"Damn it!" He was tired, angry, and wanted to go home. Home to his own bed, in his own room, near his own pub. Instead, he and Sherlock had been travelling from village to village following an elusive trail of counterfeit IDs. Sherlock had treated the entire escapade as a kind of entertaining road trip, even going as far as suggesting side-tracks to investigate obscure bookshops and even, at one point, a medical glass blowers' factory.

"John?" Sherlock had appeared behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the stale, dusty room, "I see. Wrong beds."

"Yes Sherlock. Wrong beds!" John spat back, "AGAIN!" Pushing past him, he stormed back down the three flights of stairs to reception.

By the time Sherlock had followed, John had crowded into the receptionist's personal space and was animatedly expressing his displeasure without a great deal of success.

"I was perfectly clear on the phone..."

"I dinna know what te tell ye, there dinna be a record of twin beds." The receptionist replied in her broad Scottish accent, apparently well used to handling difficult customers "Ye can take the room, or ye can leave. But ye willna find anything else with the festival on."

Swallowing back the rather extreme curse that threatened to only make the situation worse, John stalked from the hotel to pace the car park in the dwindling light.

Sherlock followed down the stairs to stand quietly waiting for the furious fire to burn itself down to something he could reason with. He watched the shorter man stalk up and down; talking animatedly, with himself presumably as there was nobody else around, expressive hands alternating between balled fists and outstretched supplicating gestures.

"John…" Sherlock tried after the pacing slowed somewhat.

"No." The answer was clipped.

"John…"

"Sherlock, no. We're not doing this again. We've had to share a bed what three…four times"

"Five" Unable to stop himself correcting an error, the words left Sherlock's mouth before he had a chance to deduce that they would only inflame the situation.

The pacing stopped, and Sherlock waited for the anger to turn on him. Instead, John turned, heaved a long steadying breath, rolled his shoulders back, straightened up adding both height and bearing to his stance and returned to the taller man.

"Alright Sherlock….five." The smile was small, and somewhat begrudging, but it was there and was a good sign. The instinctive reply from Sherlock had disrupted the maelstrom and given John some steady ground to stand on. Whatever else, Sherlock could be relied on to speak the truth regardless of circumstance and often, like in the current situation; when it may make it worse.

"You're angry" Sherlock continued to state the obvious.

"Yes…"

"But not with me?"

"No" John added tiredly, "Not with you. This isn't your fault. But I'm tired, and I'm filthy and all I want is a shower and a good night sleep and now I'm not going to get it."

"Because of me…"

"Because of the BED Sherlock! Because of the damned, wrongly booked, too small and probably uncomfortable…bed."

"Am I that poor a sleeping partner?"

"What? No. Yes…Sort of. Look, it's not your fault. We're two grown men used to having our own space and having a 6 foot man next to me in a small hotel double usually ends with me crowded to an edge and hanging on to ensure I don't get tipped out."

"I don't ask you to give up space."

"You don't need to. Trust me, your arms and legs, which by the way seem to get even longer during the night, end up everywhere."

"It isn't intentional" Sherlock looked slightly contrite. "I could stay awake, let you have the bed. I manage better on less sleep."

John started at the offer, it was generous and for a moment, tempting and quite unlike Sherlock in its unselfishness. John gave a sigh, "No…No, we'll make do. We might just have to adjust the ground rules before bed."

"There are rules for this type of situation?"

"No, and maybe that's where we've been going wrong. Let's get dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't particularly care. I am."

As John enthusiastically mopped up gravy with bread and Sherlock less happily stirred the remainder of his risotto around the bowl, John added to the developing picture he'd drawn on the napkin.

"So…this is the bed" John tapped at the napkin. Looking up at Sherlock's eyes he could practically see the need to point out that in fact the napkin was a 'representation' of the bed and smiled at the restraint shown when Sherlock gave a tight nod.

Unable to resist and determined to retire in a better mood than he'd been in most of the day, John paused, tapped again and repeated slowly, "the…bed"

Through gritted teeth, John heard, "depiction of the bed. Go on…"

John's smile widened, irrationally happy at the small victory, "and this line 'represents'", he articulated carefully, "the middle".

"Obviously"

"So I suggest we add a line of pillows down this line…"

"Wrong" Sherlock interrupted

"Sorry?"

"Your solution is flawed John. In fact, you've likely made the situation worse. Your issue, as you described it earlier today is that you have insufficient room in the bed. By adding three…" He looked at the line on the napkin, "Probably four…pillows, you've simply reduce the available space further."

John tossed the pencil down. "Then what do you suggest Sherlock, 'because I'm out of ideas"

"Actually, I have several." Sherlock crumpled up the napkin. "We won't need this. Come John."

"So….THIS is the bed," Sherlock gestured making it clear that the sparring match was far from over, "and a far more practical example than a badly drawn picture"

"Yes..alright Sherlock."

"I believe John that the fundamental flaw in developing your solution is caused by a number of mistakes in the originating data."

"I don't…"

"Firstly, you believe the bed is too small. In actual fact, there is more than sufficient room for two fully grown adult males, even discounting the areas at the corners that are underutilised."

"Yes…but.."

Sherlock continued on without pausing, "Secondly, and I include this point for completeness, my limbs grow in neither number nor size during the night, although I concede they may appear to do so." There was a slight humour evident in the second point and John smiled at the fastidiousness of Sherlock's analysis.

"Three….Coming into occasional contact with another human being….that person being me…during the night will not seriously endanger your health…." Sherlock slowly turned to John and caught his eyes, "…or alter your sexuality."

There it was, with surgical precision, Sherlock had once again cut to the heart of the matter and exposed the truth to the cold light of day. Now it was for John to complete the operation or allow the patient to bleed to death. Without breaking the gaze, Sherlock stood in silence, waiting for John to work through the information and reach a conclusion in his own time. Some things couldn't be rushed.

"Sherlock…" John began tentatively, "…what..?"

Sherlock continued to wait, continued his steady gaze, waiting for John to make the long mental journey that Sherlock had reached the logical conclusion to weeks ago.

"I'm not gay Sherlock." John murmured quietly

"Not in the traditional sense, no John, you're not. I don't believe I said that you were" Never losing their focus, Sherlock's expressionless voice dared John to continue the journey.

"I like women", came the murmur.

"I know John, but more accurately…you like sex. Women have simply been the more commonly accessible avenue to satisfying that desire"

John wouldn't argue with that, he tilted his head acknowledging the truth of the statement, "and you're suggesting…?"

"I'm suggesting…" Sherlock stepped back ever so slightly, very pleased in the progress John had made and not willing to push him any further, "that what is needed in this bed, is less room, not more. If you can reach a point where you are comfortable that whenever something were to happen, IF anything were to happen…..it would be consensual from both parties, then your need to distance yourself, mentally AND physically will diminish and I believe you'll sleep better for it."

John was thinking seriously, eyes distant as his world shifted in a fundamental way under Sherlock's infallible facts, "And you're saying it would be…..consensual?"

"It would be, yes." Sherlock said simply, "However," Sherlock took another step back, "I am not suggesting anything whatsoever happen tonight. This is a lot for you to consider John and not a conclusion I wish you to reach recklessly. I simply wished to alert you to several flaws in your current self-awareness and make it clear where I stood on the matter. Let me assure you, I will not be the aggressor in this John, I find myself bowing to your experience in this matter."

"Right…" John began slowly, clarity coming to his eyes as he said the words, "Right…." He trailed off again.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Are you OK?"

John shook his head, clearing the fog and caught his friend's eyes, "Yes. You know, I think I am. Can we get some sleep?"

Seven hours later, John awake with a not unfamiliar feeling of being immobilised on the bed by an arm draped carelessly across his chest and shoulder. He'd stayed the night with enough dates to recognise the feeling through the fog of sleep and not startle at the feeling of being gently trapped. Becoming more alert, he became more clearly aware that the arm was attached to the long lean length of Sherlock snuggled face down, along the length of his body from chest to hips. Right leg draped over John's left leg they had slid slowly during the night and settled comfortably into the severe dip in the centre of the old hotel mattress. Sherlock was warm, warmer than John and in the cocoon of the bed, John found himself oddly at peace with the unlikely development in their friendship.

John turned his face to glance at the pillow beside him; Sherlock's face was turned toward him, eyes closed and still clearly asleep. The carefully controlled expressions Sherlock displayed during the day were gone and the open, peaceful vulnerability John saw on the face nuzzled next to him was curiously innocent and appeared much younger. It was as though, during these brief hours, the amazing intellect so evident during the day was also resting, gathering strength for the day ahead.

John shifted slightly to ease an ache in his hip and Sherlock reflexively stretched an arm, curling it further around and tugged slightly to gather the shorter man closer. Sherlock's a cuddler, not something I expected. Given this quiet time, John took the opportunity to work through the revelations from the previous night.

Once he'd come to terms that there was no risk to their friendship from a misplaced hand or awkward physical reaction to the brush of skin on skin, John found the peculiar companionship in the bed strangely comforting. John tossed and turned restlessly and Sherlock muttered under his breath at the disturbance and it had all been oddly 'domestic'. There'd been hushed discussion about the progress of the case, how much longer they likely be in Scotland, the need to ring Mrs Hudson to toss out various decomposing organic containers in the fridge and at one point, in the still of the night a revealing and deeply personal conversation about their relative sexual history. It had all evolved very naturally and John, although surprised at the level of detail he'd relinquished so willingly, wasn't uncomfortable with the information he'd shared.

At some point, Sherlock admitted that for some time, he'd wanted to investigate the scar on John's shoulder and John shyly granted permission. For unmeasured minutes, long, nimble fingers gently traced and explored, teasing tissue and testing flexibility as John lay motionless in the dark and stifled groans as nerve endings were stimulated and John lay entranced by the play of light off Sherlock's impossibly bright eyes in the darkness and dealt with an unexpected rush of desire to reach out and touch back. Sensing a change, Sherlock diverted his gaze from shoulder to face, and John knew his discomfort was clear in the dim light.

The large hand moved up to gently cup John's face and brush a cheekbone tenderly and Sherlock whispered, "Thank you. Night John." Then, slowly and deliberately, rolled away slightly, giving John a little gap of security between them, and settled to sleep.

The light of day brought with it a new clarity and John finally came to terms that while he may not be gay in the traditional sense, he certainly felt 'something' for Sherlock. Something raw and altogether different to the simple lust and need he experienced with women he met in daily life. This was deeper and richer. He felt that whenever he got close to an edge, there was an inexorable tug that threatened to pull him down and the fear of being consumed repeatedly made him step back. With a snap of recognition, he realised that Sherlock had probably deduced what had been going on weeks ago and it was only the present situation that had finally pushed the younger man to drop some salient facts to push John along. Yet he didn't feel rushed, there was a distinct lack of pressure and John found that remaining in control of the pace was empowering instead of threatening.

There was a quiet cough beside him and John realised that at some point during his internal monologue Sherlock had awoken and was studying his face, the daytime mask just beginning to re-exert its control. John found himself sorry to see the night-time face depart.

"Morning" As Sherlock's sleep-roughened voice stated the obvious; he began to lift the arm curled around John

"Morning..." John moved his own arm to cover Sherlock's, effectively preventing its removal. "Sorry, not quite ready to give that arm back yet."

"Really, I thought you might feel crowded." A wary smile crossed Sherlock's face

"No. There seems to be plenty of room in here this morning" John smiled lazily.

"Good. Sleep well?"

"Brilliantly. We should do this more often."

"Yes we should. John?"

"Yes Sherlock."

"Want to go home?"

"We have a case to solve Sherlock"

"Not anymore, I solved it last night. I just need to ring it through."

"Sherlock…."

"Mmmmm?"

"I'll pack while you make a call. Let's go home."


End file.
